


No One is Here to Sleep

by Sensinister



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: All Sorts of Creative Fanfiction Based Canon Abuse Takes Place in Here, Alternate Universe - Amnesia, Amnesiac Rick, And So Many Bad People, Awkward Daryl, BAMF Daryl, BAMF Rick, Bad Things Happen To Rick, But Good Things Happen Too, But He is Still A Bad Ass, Daryl Has Issues, Daryl is Bad With Feelings, Good Brother Merle, If You Don't Know What I Mean Then, It Means Rick is a TINY BIT INSANE, M/M, Merle Being an Asshole, Merle Isn't Amused By This, POV Rick, Possessive Rick, Protective Rick, Protectiveness, Rick has it Bad, Rick's Cracker Isn't exactly Evenly Salted If Ya Know What I Mean, Rick's Sheriff Hat is a Tag to Itself, Rick-Centric, So Much Zombies, Violence Against Walkers, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3639483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensinister/pseuds/Sensinister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Rick Grimes woke up in the hospital with no memories, the only clue to his identity being his Hospital wristband? How would things have changed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One is Here to Sleep

**~*~~*~~*~~*~**

**Author: Sensinister**

**Title: No One is Here to Sleep**

**Chapter: 01 - Forgotten**

**~*~**

In a hospital in King County Georgia, a man opens his eyes, blinking at the harsh white light shining into his eyes, unable to recall where he is or how he got there. He calls a few times for help, for a nurse, for anyone, but no one comes. For all he knows, he could be the last man on Earth. The clock on the wall has stopped moving, the IV in his arm is dry, and he has an extremely sore wound bandaged up under some pretty foul smelling bandages. The amnesiac looks down to see a white band on his wrist, the only clue to who he is.

In neat small black lettering it reads:  _Grimes, Rick A. M. DOB - September 14, 1981. Admitted - April 12, 2010. Blood Type - A+_

He reads it until his eyes hurt, committing it to memory, until he can almost convince himself that he remembers who he is. This is all he knows about himself, a few words and numbers written on a white plastic wristband. Rick Grimes, 29 years old. He knows literately nothing else about himself except that he was wounded. Still, even that small amount of knowledge gives him something to cling to.

Rick climbs out of the bed, overestimating his own strength, and his weak unused legs crumple under him. He hits the floor painfully, groaning as he feels the unseen wound under his bandages pull at itself. It takes some time and effort, getting back onto his feet, but he manages. The first thing he does when he gets into the bathroom adjoining his room is get a drink, turning on both sides of the faucet and gulping down as much water as he can before he realizes he drank to fast and throws it all back up. He takes his time after that, and then he finally takes his first look at himself.

Dark brown hair, blue eyes, white skin. He does not recognize himself, but he hadn't expected to suddenly have an epiphany the moment he looked at his own face. He stares at the unfamiliar face in the mirror, running shaking fingers through greasy hair and rough stubble, and then Rick walks back out of the bathroom, and continues out into the hall.

He shivers at the unexpected sight that meets him. It is like walking into a horror movie, vague images of serial killers and horrible diseases dance in his head like pictures on an old tv screen, and as he progresses down the hall he almost expects to start hearing eerie music. There is a door, the hospital cafeteria, and as Rick comes closer he hears moans. The door creeks under the weight of whatever is in there, and Rick backs away in terror as what appears to be rotting hands start pushing through the cracks to grasp at the door. He continues his exploration until he gets outside. There are dead bodies everywhere.

He goes wandering for a bit, coming up to a red bicycle, and he falls to the ground in fear as he sees a rotted half of a corpse trying to come at him. He is in hell, it is the only explanation. Rick grabs the bike, and he peddles back to the hospital.

He goes back inside, unsure of what exactly he needs to do, but knowing that he needs food and weapons. If the dead are walking, then he needs to figure out a plan first. He isn't going to aimlessly wander the streets if he can be prepared first. It's bad enough he doesn't know what is going on. It's bad enough he was forgotten, left to figure out all this shit on his own. The hospital is at least surrounded by unmoving dead bodies, relatively safe as far as he can tell.

He searches the place top to bottom, lucky enough to find a flashlight pretty soon after he burns his fingers on the last of the matches. He drags around a couple red cross paramedic's bag, filling it with things he thinks look useful. There are quite a few guns, from military personnel, but only a few are not broken or completely out of ammo. He steals the ammo from every gun, checking each to see how good of shape its in, then he packs the only two working guns into the bag. By the time he's done looting, and really he cannot figure out any less provocative words to describe what he is doing, he has two bags. One filled with various different medications that could come in handy, and the other filled with weapons, including the two semi-automatic rifles, the emergency fire axes from every single floor, a few grenades pulled from dead soldiers, and a pretty nice hunting knife with a black blade. He slings the bags over his shoulder, crashing the glass fronts of the vending machine by the cafeteria. There isn't very much in there. A few candy-bars and a bag of potato chips, but his stomach feels like it is trying to eat itself, so he rips open one of the candy bars, shoving the others into a bag, and sits down where he can watch the doors.

At first he had thought it said Don't Dead, Open Inside, but his coma addled brain realized pretty quickly that it said Don't Open, Dead Inside. He is halfway done with the chocolate when he hears a sickening creaking noise, and he realizes the door isn't holding. Rick grabs the bags instantly, running as fast as he is able to, banging open doors in his haste. Even with all the noise of his hasty retreat, he still hears the dead get loose. He is outside as soon as humanly possible climbing up and into the tank parked outside. He only just has the two openings closed when he hears them surrounding him from the outside.

So, maybe going back to the hospital wasn't his best move. He stays still and silent, checking the tank for anything useful. There is a single fully loaded Beretta, and a machete with a red handle. He slips the weapons into his bag. Rick pops open the top of the tank, checking the situation. They are surrounding him, but they don't see him. Rick goes back down, grabs two of the grenades, and throws them one after the other out of the tank, slamming the top shut just in time. He feels the explosion from inside the tank, and hears as it sets of a few car alarms. He peeks out again, only to watch as the dead wander off towards the noise, half of them on fire, a few scattered remains and guts surrounding the tank. He climbs back out of the tank, dragging his bags over to a military jeep, and throwing them in back. He kicks the corpses out of it, and then fills the tank with the last remaining drops oil from the various drums surrounding the hospital.

He finds himself in a town nearby, and he starts searching house by house for survivors or useful items. He finds plenty of stuff in that town and every surrounding town, and fills pretty much like a one man army with the amassed collection of weapons and gear he finds. Food wise, he's still a bit low, but he has enough to feed himself for probably three months if he goes easy, one can a day or less, or twice that if he only eats every other day. It is amazing what people in a hurry leave behind. It isn't like he knows who to look for, but he would be more than willing to share if he finds anyone who isn't dead.

**~*~**

Rick stops at a police station, remembering for some reason he can not think of that they have their own propane system. He steals the keys off a dead officer he kills, and he locks himself and everything inside the police station. Clearly no one thought to steal the guns before, and Rick happily adds it to his loot. Once again Rick wonders if maybe the reason he hasn't seen another living human is because they are all idiots who got themselves killed due to lack of proper planning. He wonders if he would have been the same, if maybe he'd have not thought of anything but finding family, or if he even had one. Rick wants to believe he would have been smart enough to figure out everything on his own, smarty enough to search for weapons before chasing after faceless relatives or rumors of safe places.

He spends an astounding amount of time under the hot spray of the shower, until the water runs clear and his feet and fingers are pruned and wrinkled. He uses an entire bottle of soap, because he seriously doubts it matters if he wastes water and soap at this point. He shaves his face, hoping maybe he might recognize himself when he isn't covered in dead skin and grease and hair. He still is no more or less recognizable when he's cleaned up, toweled off, and his mostly healed wound is redressed and bandaged once more. He doesn't know how he knows it, but he knows the barely healing scar is from a gunshot wound. It isn't the only one on his body, but it is the worst. It goes through his shoulder, almost under his arm, and it comes right out through his chest and lower ribs and stomach, dark pinkish on white skin.

He finds clothing in the police locker room, belatedly realizing he had not thought to grab any clothes from the houses he'd searched, and he digs through it all. It feels wrong to steal the uniform, so instead he goes through personal belongings. He finds only a few things that fit. A dark black coat with a white inner lining, a dark plaid button up short sleeved shirt, a pair of dark pants, and some boots he tights tightly on his feet. He does steal one of the sheriff's deputy hats, black with a golden six point star. It feels right on his head, for some reason. He briefly plays with the idea that he was a cop, maybe even a sheriff's deputy, but then shakes it off. He can't imagine feeling comfortable looting a few towns in a single day if he were a cop.

It isn't like he has anything else to do. He has no family to search for, no friends to care for, and no clues to tell him anything about himself. For all he knows, the world has been like this for all his life, although he seriously doubts that. All Rick can do is make sure he stays alive, to make sure anyone he might meet stays alive, and that is all he can think about. Pillaging abandoned towns for supplies is the best way to do that.

Still, he likes the sound of it. Officer Rick Grimes. It's better than Coma Patient with Mysterious Gunshot who may very well be a Criminal, but then again anything is better than nothing after all, and there was something nice about the idea of being a law man. He wasn't sure what kind of man he was, he wasn't even sure what his favorite color was, but he thought that maybe if it was in his power to help, to do some good, that he would definitely do so.

Rick stays in the Police station for a few days, enjoying the silence and peace of the empty building. It gets a little boring sitting around with no one to keep him company, so by the second day of sitting around bored out of his mind, he starts leaving, practicing his already apparently pretty decent gun skills on the dead. On the fourth day, he takes two steps outside to get some fresh air, and is immediately hit in the face with a shovel.

Rick vaguely hears the kid standing over him yelling, sees another person standing over him, and he feels his mouth move to form words even he can't understand, and then his eyes roll back in his head and he faints.

**~*~**

Rick comes to in a house, tied to a bed, with a dark skinned man standing over him. "Got that bandage changed out." He says. "What was the wound?"

"Gunshot." Rick answers, trying to will his head to stop throbbing.

"Gun shot? What else? Anything?" The man seems urgent.

"Gun shot ain't enough?" Rick retorts, and the look the man gives him is almost worth the fact that Rick is pretty sure he's going to be gutted.

"Look, I ask and you answer, It's common courtesy, right?" He comes in real close. "Did you get bit? Chewed. Maybe scratched. Anything like that?"

"No, I got shot. As far as I know, and that ain't exactly much." The man gives him a strange look. "Woke up in the hospital a few days ago. All I know is what I've seen these past four days, and my name. Wouldn't even know that if it weren't for that bracelet." he jerks his head up at the white band on his left wrist, mostly obscured by the cords tying his wrists to the headboard."

The man looks suspicious and pitying all at once. He puts a knife up close to Ricks face, and he stares at it warily. "Take a moment, eh? Look how sharp it is. You try anything I will kill you with it, and don't you think I won't." He cuts the restraints. "Come on up when you're able."

Rick rubs his wrists, tangles his fingers tightly around the white band like a safety vise, and then he follows the man out, grabbing his hat from the night table as he goes.

The rest of the night passes with relative ease. He learns that the man is named Morgan, and his boy is named Dwayne, and his wife is a walker. They talk briefly about the dead, Walkers they're called, and about a safe zone in Atlanta. Rick watches the Walkers warily from the peephole in the door all night, feeling now like he understands the dead less than he did before he knew what was going on.

**~*~**

**~*~**

**AN: So if people are wondering what the fuck is up with Rick's Bad-Ass Armory of Doom, I sort of suspect Morgan did not go too far when finding all his loot (if you are not this far into watching then you probably should watch season three and discover what I'm talkin' about.) while he went psychotic after the tragedy I shant speak of because it would be a spoiler, so I just used my creativity, and made smart Rick go search his hometown and nearby towns for stuff and thangs, and he came back with a shit tone of weapons. This is mostly because I needed him to do some stuff until he meets Morgan, and also because, although it isn't completely obvious yet, I woke him up a little earlier. Case Closed.**

**Next Chapter: Days Gone Bye, in which we meet some characters and start on out long road to insanity.**

**Also, if you wondered what I dressed Rick up in, go to these following links. You've already seen him in them anyways.**

**[The Coat](http://www.ultimofashions.com/image/cache/data/Celebrity%20jackets/rick-grimes-season-4-walking-dead-jacket-625x794.jpg) & [The Rest of his Clothes](http://www.gothic.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/walking-dead-307-02.jpg)** **  
**

**Okay, Love you All!**

**~Sens**


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